Chapter 3 #4
"Ten firms. All vetted, all capable of handling the Sterling Tower timeline."
Finally.
"Leave it on my desk."
He sets it down, starts to leave, then pauses.
"Anything else you need today?"
"No. That's it. Thanks, Marcus."
He nods and disappears. I stare at the folder for a moment, and then I open it.
Inside are ten firms, each with a single-page overview. Firm name, principal designer, notable projects, estimated timelines, rate structures. Marcus has done his usual thorough job—every firm here is qualified, experienced, capable.
I scan the first page.
Ashford Design Collective. High-end residential, strong portfolio, but their aesthetic skews traditional. Not what I need.
Second page. Studio Maren. Better. Modern, clean lines, but I've heard they're difficult to work with. Every decision requires three rounds of revisions.
Third page. Bennett & Associates. Solid work, but uninspired. Safe choices, nothing that pushes boundaries.
I flip through the next five quickly. All competent. All acceptable. None of them right. Then I reach the tenth page.
Winter Hayes Design Studio
I stop. Her name on the page feels like a punch I wasn't prepared for. I read it again:
Winter Hayes Design Studio. Principal Designer: Winter Hayes. Notable projects: West Village brownstone restoration, Chelsea loft conversion, Upper East Side penthouse. Current project: Chen residence, $3.5M.
Winter: Rowan's girlfriend.
I stare at the page, my brain trying to catch up to what I'm seeing. I lean forward, hit the intercom.
"Marcus."
He appears in my doorway ten seconds later.
"Yes?"
"Why is Winter Hayes Design on this list?"
He doesn't hesitate.
"The firm's been on a meteoric rise over the past two years. Strong portfolio, excellent client reviews, and they were actually referred by one of your previous contractors.
Marcus steps closer, gestures to the page.
"I pulled some background. She's done a couple of projects for Sterling Commercial—your family's firm. Her work is highly regarded in the industry. Architectural Digest is featuring one of her restorations in their November issue."
I keep my expression neutral, but my mind is racing.
Marcus is watching me carefully now.
"Do you know the firm well?"
I pause. Regain composure.
"Not technically."
The lie sits there between us, small and necessary.
"I'll review all of them," I say, closing the folder.
"Thanks, Marcus. That's all for now."
He nods and leaves, closing the door behind him.
I sit at my desk, the folder in front of me, and I don't move for a long moment.
Winter Hayes Design.
I open the folder again, pull out her page, and really look at it this time. The projects listed are impressive—West Village brownstone that I remember reading about, a Chelsea loft that was featured in design blogs, current work on a $3.5M penthouse.
She's good. That much is clear.
I open my laptop, type her firm's name into the search bar.
The website loads—clean design, professional, sophisticated.
A portfolio page showcases her completed projects with high-quality photography.
I click through them slowly. The West Village brownstone: original details preserved, modern elements integrated seamlessly.
The Chelsea loft: industrial bones softened with warm materials, layered lighting, spaces that feel lived-in despite the high-end finishes.
This is exactly what I need for Sterling Tower.
I find an article from Architectural Digest's website—a preview of their November feature.
The photos show a pre-war apartment transformed into something that feels both timeless and contemporary.
The write-up praises her ability to "honor architectural heritage while creating spaces for modern living. "
I sit back, staring at the screen.
She's talented. More than talented—she's exactly the kind of designer who could execute Sterling Tower's vision without losing the soul of it.
But she's also Rowan's girlfriend.
I close the laptop, but continue scanning the other nine firms from Marcus's list. I spend the next twenty minutes forcing myself to review them with the same scrutiny I gave Winter's page.
Ashford Design Collective: too traditional.
Studio Maren: too difficult.
Bennett & Associates: too safe.
The others: competent, qualified, acceptable.
But I keep going back to Winter Hayes Design.
I push away from my desk, stand, walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city spreads out below—Manhattan in late afternoon, traffic crawling through intersections, people moving like ants between buildings. From forty stories up, it all looks manageable, organized, contained.
My thoughts take over. The truth is, I don't really know Winter.
I've seen her at family functions—maybe five times total over the past two years.
We've exchanged hellos, nothing more. Brief conversations in passing, the kind of polite acknowledgments that happen when you're in the same room but not the same orbit.
I don't know her allegiance. Don't know if she'd even consider taking a meeting with me, let alone a project.
The act of reaching out to schedule an appointment—she might be offended by that alone.
Might see it as overstepping, as crossing some invisible line between her relationship with Rowan and my world.
From what I can tell, she and Rowan are tight.
I've seen them together at events—her standing beside him, his hand on her back, the performance of a couple that looks good on the surface.
And my parents seem to like her. Diane especially—I've noticed my mother talking to Winter at gatherings, her face animated in a way it rarely is with Rowan's other girlfriends over the years.
Winter's done projects for Sterling Commercial. She has a relationship with my family's business. Hiring her for Sterling Tower would be... complicated.
Business and personal conflict, tangled together.
I turn away from the window, pace back toward my desk. My mind is running through scenarios, implications, the ways this could go wrong.
Is part of me considering this because it would create tension? Because it would push buttons, cause friction, prove some point about boundaries and business decisions?
Maybe.
But that's not why I keep coming back to her page.
I keep coming back because my business acumen doesn't fail me. My instinct doesn't fail me. I've built Sterling Luxury Developments by trusting my gut when it tells me something is right, even when the optics are complicated.
And something about Winter Hayes Design feels right.
The timeline is tight—six months from contract to installation.
The scope is massive—three full model units, custom everything, staging that has to tell a story compelling enough to justify eight-figure price tags.
I need a designer who can handle that pressure, who won't cut corners, who understands that luxury isn't about showpieces but about creating spaces where people actually want to live.
Winter's portfolio suggests she gets that.
But would she even consider this? Big job, tight deadline, working with her boyfriend's brother on a project that would inevitably create family complications.
How would I even persuade her if she's hesitant?
The project itself is the strongest argument—career-defining work, portfolio addition that elevates her firm to a different level entirely. But if she's loyal to Rowan, if she's embedded in the Sterling Commercial ecosystem through my family, she might see this as betrayal.
The optics would be terrible. I know that. Rowan would lose his mind. My father would have opinions. Diane would try to mediate. The whole family dynamic—already strained—would fracture further.
One mention, stated as fact: this would cause more strife.
But I've never played it safe. I've never made business decisions based on keeping peace or avoiding conflict. I left Sterling Commercial ten years ago precisely because I was tired of letting family politics dictate my professional choices.
So why would I start now?
I sit back down at my desk, pull out Winter's page from the folder one more time. Stare at her firm's name, the list of projects, the evidence of talent and vision.
The smart move would be to choose one of the other nine firms. Keep things simple, avoid complications, hire someone competent and move forward.
But I didn't build what I've built by making the smart, safe move. I built it by trusting instinct–and my instinct keeps pulling me back to Winter Hayes Design.
I need to think on this. Not rush into a decision, not let the pressure of the Steinberg Group's Friday deadline force my hand. I have time—not much, but enough to sit with this, to weigh the implications properly.
My office phone rings, loud in the quiet. I blink, pulled out of the spiral of thoughts, and reach for it.
"Knox Sterling."
"Mr. Sterling, it's David Morrison from Goldman. Do you have a few minutes to discuss the financing structure for the Brooklyn project?"
"Yes. Give me one second."
I set Winter's page down on my desk, pull up the Brooklyn file on my laptop, and shift back into business mode.
"Okay, David. I'm ready. Walk me through it."
The conversation pulls me in—numbers, terms, timelines. By the time I hang up twenty minutes later, the designer question has been pushed to the back of my mind, still there but manageable.
I'll think on it tonight. I'll talk to Fletcher and James at drinks, get their perspective, figure out if this is brilliance or insanity. And then I'll decide.
The Henley Club occupies the top floor of a pre-war building in Midtown, the kind of place that doesn't advertise because it doesn't need to. Membership is by invitation only, the annual dues cost more than most people's cars, and the atmosphere is designed for one thing: privacy.